‘We Didn’t Order For You,’ Dad Said, Sliding Me Bread While My Brother Enjoyed His Steak. His Wife Said, “It’s Nice You Could Make It.” When The Bill Came, Dad Said: “Let’s Split It Fairly.”

I set three singles on the white tablecloth.

They looked like a flag. “There,” I said softly. “That’s for the butter.”

Connor went crimson, then pale, like the steak’s cooking chart in reverse.

“You’re joking.”

“You wanted fair,” I said. “Bread was complimentary. Butter tasted about $3 worth of dignity.”

Victoria’s mouth opened and gathered adjectives it didn’t release.

“This is embarrassing,” she breathed. “For whom?” I asked, genuinely curious. No one answered.

I stood, slid on my jacket, and met Dad’s eyes. There was a flicker. Shame wearing a father’s face.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said. I looked at Connor. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

Then I walked out.

Past tables cocooned in wine and leather, past a hostess who pretended not to remember my rainhair, past a valet I didn’t use out of principle, into night air that smelled like wet pavement and relief. My phone vibrated an Arya in my pocket before I reached the corner. I didn’t answer.

I let the city’s hum drown the urgency they wanted to rent. At home, I shut the door, pressed my spine to it, and waited for the guilt to arrive. It didn’t.

Not the old kind, the kind trained into me since childhood. The be easy, don’t make waves, pay for peace kind. In its place was something steadier, a baseline.

I poured a drink and finally looked at my phone. Missed calls stacked like dominoes. Texts from Connor, from Dad, from a number saved as Victoria, temporary.

Because I never let myself believe she’d be permanent. You owe Dad $300. This is typical of you.

You embarrassed us. Classless. I set the phone down, then picke

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